


Thieves: Red Dead Roulette - Reloaded

by Omnibard



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (mostly), Betrayal, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lost Love, Love Triangles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-03-07 07:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18868684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard
Summary: I had to rewrite 'Roulette' twice.  The first draft was just... too long.  Really long.  I didn't want to have the 'choose your ending' be so unbalanced.So this is the "expanded B Choice" whereArthur chooses to follow Mrs. Cornwall to Emerald Ranch(click the link if you haven't read the set up) and the five years that follow.





	1. Rats

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Thieves: Red Dead Roulette](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122822) by [Omnibard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard). 



He couldn’t look at her.  He looked at Sadie, who looked back at him, waiting to follow his lead.  She’d become so capable in such a short time, what business did she have wanting to follow  _ him _ ?

He looked at Tilly.  Her dark eyes pleaded with him.

He looked at Jack.

The boy was one of the reasons he’d come this far, wasn’t he?  All his efforts the last few weeks had been bent toward getting these people out of this life and safe.  What kind of man was he if he turned back now and didn’t see that through?

Catherine said John and Abigail were alive, and safe in Emerald Ranch.  But how long? What exactly did  _ Mrs. Cornwall _ have planned for them, and how tightly was she tied to the Pinkertons and US Marshals?

He’d have to go with her to find out.

“Okay…” He said softly, coughing into his fist. “Emerald Ranch, then.  Okay.”

It felt anything but.

“Oh Arthur!” Tilly cried, tension breaking over her slender body with a shudder.

“Thank you--”

“--Don’t thank me.” Was his harsh retort before swallowing back the pain of the gaping wound inside as he mounted up.  He still couldn’t look at her, “Don’ say anything to me.”

Catherine blinked, then dipped her chin in a nod, her face a resolute mask.  Obediently, the blood bay turned at her leg pressure and she led them at a brisk trot.

Sadie dropped back to match pace with Arthur and Slim, “... Do you really believe anything she said?” was her hushed query.

Tilly and Jack were between them and Mrs Cornwall (he still recoiled inside every time he thought the name), but Arthur wasn’t as convinced she wouldn’t hear them.  It didn’t matter, really. Every step this direction felt like the wrong one, and dread cramped his guts into knots. He kept his gaze fixed forward, on Tilly’s back.

“... Don’t benefit her to be lying now,” Was his soft reply, “if these woods is full of marshals.  If they ain’t, then she’s alone an’ unarmed, and I’ve never known her to trust in her charms alone for a con.”

“But you  _ do _ know her… and she  _ does _ lie…?” Sadie pressed.

“Sure we know her.  As for lyin’...no. Not when the truth is sharper.” He shrugged, “She’ll talk aroun’ things… but never anything straight a lie.”

“... So Dutch lied--”

“--Let’s just see.” He gritted out, feeling his teeth grind.

Knowing to leave well enough alone, Mrs. Adler didn’t ask any further questions and instead trotted up beside Tilly to hear about the Pinkerton raid on Beaver Hollow.

“We’ll pick up the road just ahead,” Catherine announced.

A shrill whistle rang out in two short bursts up the ridge, somewhere between the trees, along with the sound of galloping hooves just as Slim’s heavy hooves found the wheel-traced dirt of the road.

That would be Javier.  A wave of nausea clenched Arthur’s throat.

Catherine looked over her shoulder at those behind her, voice urgent, “Dig in, we need to--”

She was interrupted by gunshots not too far away.

Dutch.

Slim danced restlessly under him, the solid war horse sensing the extreme distress in his rider.  Mrs. Cornwall had turned her mount fully to the side and was watching him, silent as he’d requested.  Arthur wasn’t sure what was on his face, but whatever it was, it had apparently let her know how much of him wanted to spur toward the sound of battle and gunsmoke to his mentor and friend’s side.  She had her mount gathered in hand, as if preparing to chase after him or stop him.

It caused him to guffaw.  What an insane world they were in when Miss Catherine, fancy high-born lady that she was, thought she could out-ride  _ him _ .

The guffaw cost him another miserable fit of breathless coughing, and after spitting out more bloody phlegm into the bushes, Arthur recognized that it was the same world where he would be cut down by a disease instead of a bullet.  The same world where he would leave Dutch to the trap set for him. Meeting Catherine’s pale eyes, he wanted to ask her if there’d ever been the option for him to take the gallows in Dutch’s stead. Her face was still cold and resolute, but those eyes were the same as a year ago, and he had learned to read them better than any German she’d tried to teach him.  She suspected she knew just what this was doing to him, and knowing robbed all pleasure. If this was vengeance, it was bitter and a punishment for her to swallow.

… And yet she’d done it anyway.  She’d do it again. Looking at her, he knew she’d do it a thousand times over.  He just didn’t know why. Surely, she couldn’t hate Dutch that much…

The gunfire ceased as abruptly as it started.  The silence boomed through the forest like the breaking of a storm.  Arthur felt a shudder through his whole body and dropped his eyes from where they were locked with Mrs. Cornwall’s.

“We have to go.” Was all she said in a flat, quiet voice.

They went, picking up a fast lope, flying along the road.

* * *

Javier joined them a half mile down the road.  They shared a look, and Arthur suspected the other man was trying to read the outcomes-- always reading other people, Javier, trying to weigh their thoughts in his own head.  Likely he was trying to figure just how angry Arthur was about the situation, and whether or not he’d burned the bridge between them when he’d cast his lot with Catherine…

How long ago now?  An entire year? Had Javier really been playing this con on them this entire time?  Arthur wanted to ask, but also didn’t really want to know the answer just now.

Sadie asked what had happened, and as usual, the Mexican kept his answers brief.  He’d faked an injury on Boaz and stopped to have it looked at, saying he’d catch up.  The others went on ahead. Sadie pressed him to tell her whether the others had been killed.  Javier told her flatly that he didn’t know.

Mrs. Adler then directed her questions aggressively toward Catherine, who took them in stride with her familiar dignity and keenness.  She told the blonde outlaw that the US Marshals would prefer to take Mister Van der Linde alive, if they could, but the same wasn’t true with the others, unfortunately.  The more resistance they met with, the more men would die prematurely, as a matter of course. There were more questions, mostly demanding proof of trustworthiness and soundness of planning-- things Arthur didn’t need proof of, just now-- and more quiet, plain answers.  This continued until Mrs. Adler and Mrs. Cornwall were riding side by side, and when the anger left Sadie’s voice, Arthur suspected he had little to concern himself with about them. If nothing else, Catherine was skilled at charming and ingratiating herself to others.

As for Arthur, himself, as long as he was focused on ensuring the others would really be safe, he found the resolve to continue this way, even though every step this direction twisted his guts into another knot.

It was slow going, as they did not wish to draw attention, despite the size of their party without a wagon.  After crossing the Kamassa River south of the Elysian Pool, Javier suggested setting up camp in the late afternoon.  He did not say, of course, but Arthur strongly suspected it had a good bit to do with being able to hear him wheeze rattling breaths behind him.  It’d always rankled him, the deriding comments and chastising about his cough and deteriorating energy. But if Javier had been working for Catherine the whole time instead of Dutch, what did that mean?

Camp was laid out quickly and a fire built-- of the two tents they had in the collected saddle bags, they put up one just in case the temperamental heartland summer weather sprung up a storm on them like it sometimes could.  To Arthur’s surprise, Javier asked him to go with him to try and scare up something small for supper, and when Sadie’s would-be protest was stifled by something quiet Catherine said to her, he recognized Javier’s true intention to get him away from the women and Jack.

Probably to talk.

Wanting answers, Arthur agreed and together they went through the brush.

“...How long?” He asked in a rough tone when he could no longer hear the talk from the women.

Javier let out a long sigh, and something uncoiled from his shoulders and spine like it’d been twisted in under pressure and he’d been just  _ waiting _ to let it go.  Arthur wondered if that’s what a secret like this did to a man-- crushed him slowly from the inside, “... She wrote me letters after she left, mostly in Spanish.  I didn’t think nothing much of it, but she asked me a question one time about Dutch… about how he was, you know? So I wrote her back a little note saying he was fine, still strong, still smart and in control, right?  Her next letter asked me how I knew that. I got that one after we talked at Clements Point, Dutch and I… when things started getting really… tense. I was… real confused after that conversation, but I knew he expected me to stay strong, and that’s what I wrote in my letter to her.  Her next letter was long… four pages I think?... She told me that Dutch didn’t answer my questions, he just told me what to think instead. She wrote about the things in Dutch’s books, and how Dutch twisted the things in them wrong. I thought that was weird. It made me mad, so I didn’t write her back for awhile.  I mean, she left us, so why should I listen to her about Dutch? But then I took a look at one of his books… and I started to think she was right. So I wrote her back… real sneaky, asking her questions so maybe I could figure out what she was trying to do, right? I got one little line back in the post. To meet her in Saint Denis at the station.”

“To meet Catherine?”

“Yeah.”

“... And you didn’t tell Dutch?”

“No,” Javier shrugged, “I figured if it was a trap, I’d just go look and not poke my nose in too far.  No risk to Dutch, right? Otherwise, maybe I could bring her back to him. We could all tell he… still missed her.”

Arthur didn’t comment on that, not willing to think about Dutch ‘missing’ Catherine, “... So you went?”

“Yeah, I went.  We talked. We talked about a lot of things, but then I started telling her… about everything going on.  About Dutch being strange… Stuff I didn’t intend to tell her, you know…”

“Sure, that’s Catherine, though…” The bigger man sighed, knowing full well.

“Sure.  Then she handed me some envelopes with names.  Letters for the others. For you. She asked if she could trust me to make sure everyone got her letters.  I said I would. Arthur, Dutch is… a great man. But he’s crazy.”

“I know…”

“... He told me what to think, and he said it well.  I wanted to believe in him and what he was saying as the truth.  But Catherine… she taught me  _ how _ to think.  How to look at it all from different angles… The more I looked… the worse it got.  She opened my eyes. I almost didn’t come back, but I had her letters…” The revolutionary looked Arthur in the face, then, “... And when I saw all of you, and the way you took the letters from me… I couldn’t just run.  She’d written me another letter, too. She asked me to help her. I know she asked Tilly too, and Mary-Beth. There were letters for Charles and Miss Grimshaw too. Probably the others, but not through me.”

“Why didn’t she ask me?” He knew it was the wrong question to the wrong person, but this whole thing was so eerie, Arthur couldn’t help himself.

“You didn’t write her back.  She knew you were getting the letters, but you didn’t write her… so I guess she thought you… were still tied to Dutch.”

“But you were accusing me of turnin’!”

“I was pushing you to turn.” Javier corrected, “And every time you insisted you weren’t, you’d also add something about how bad things were getting, and I could tell Catherine there was a little more hope for you.  She… was very worried about  _ you _ , my friend.  She asked about you every letter.  I got sick of writing your name, but she never seemed to…”

Arthur didn’t have an answer.  Instead he said, “So you been workin’ against Dutch since Rhodes?”

“No.  Just… looking at things different.  Catherine started giving me instructions after Guarma… after she heard about Hosea and Lenny.  I think they wrote to each other frequently…”

“... They was fond of each other… all three.”

“She told me she’d been writing Charles while I was in the Caribbean, and that she needed me to help him.  She wanted to make sure nobody else died, and wasn’t convinced Dutch still intended for anybody to get out of the life alive.  Then we found out about your disease… and Dutch and Micah…” The Mexican outlaw gestured, mouth twisting with displeasure, “She asked me to stay near them.  To play their side so she could try and… do something about them.”

It occured to Arthur at that moment that  _ all of them _ had been rats.

It didn’t sit right, so he said, “... So you decided… after some letters… that Dutch was wrong and Catherine was right--”

“--No, Arthur,” Javier said firmly, meeting his eyes for the first time, and there was fire there he hadn’t seen in a long while. “I  _ decided _ I was going to be the man I  _ needed _ to be to get done the things I intend to see accomplished.  She asked me why I  _ needed _ Dutch… and I finally decided I  _ didn’t _ .  Dutch never asked us what we wanted… what freedom meant to us.  He just  _ told us _ what it looked like.  Well he was wrong.  At least for me.”

Arthur felt a tangle of things, one of them something like  _ pride _ , he reckoned, and it took him a moment to gather the words he wanted, “... What’s that got to do with Catherine?”

“She taught me how to look at things.  I owed her,” Javier shrugged, “More than that… she’s my friend, and she was trying to save my family from a pair of madmen.  How could I not help? How could I just run away  _ again _ ?”

“... So you’re real sure she’s gonna help us… Somehow.”

“I am.” He leveled another fiery look at Arthur, “She’ll explain in Emerald Ranch.”

Blinking, Arthur asked, “You already know?”

“I’ve got a good idea.” Then Javier gestured toward the underbrush, “We better find something or Sadie will give us hell.”


	2. Bitter Mug

Arthur didn’t think he’d be able to sleep at all, but almost immediately after supper, he’d retired to a quiet spot on the edge of the camp, propped against a tree.  He’d intended to sharpen his knife and clean his revolvers, but some hours later, a fit of coughing woke him to darkness to find himself wrapped in a wool blanket.

Catherine crouched nearby and extended a steaming mug toward him when he looked at her.

Taking the mug, he considered asking her what it was, but decided he didn’t much care, “Should be sleepin’, shouldn’t you?”

“... Maybe.  I don’t sleep much these days.” She answered quietly.

“Guilty conscience?”  It wasn’t kind to dig at her, he supposed, but Arthur still felt raw.

Shrugging, Catherine moved to stand, “You’ll want to drink that hot.  It’s unbearable cold. It’s no cure… but it will make you more comfortable.”

“I know comfort’s so important to you fine ladies,  _ Mrs. Cornwall _ …”  He knew his words and tone were ugly, and he felt ugly using them.  But he wanted to get a rise out of her, wanted to pick the fight…

He wanted to reach below her composure and find the truth in her.  Maybe then he’d understand how she could rip his heart out piece by piece, and it could still be so full of love for her.

But she didn’t take the bait.  She stood and turned to go, so the words tumbled desperately out of his lips before he realized they were dancing on his tongue.

“Tell me why.”

It stopped her, but her back remained straight and unyielding, even as she turned and crouched beside him again, “... That isn’t a story for tonight.”

“I have a right to know!”

With a small sigh, Catherine met his eyes, “You do.  I will tell you, but I’m afraid I… don’t know how to tell it without being… long-winded.  For now, even though I know it will only upset you, I will confess that from the hour I decided to go… it had been my goal to save you.  No matter what.”

He frowned a her, “‘Save’ us.  Is that why you  _ left _ ?”

“I couldn’t figure out a way to save anyone from Dutch while under Dutch and with only the resources on hand.” She gestured to him, “Though I’ve been told you were doing your best.”

Grimacing, he looked away, down at the cup of steaming concoction, “Had to do  _ somethin’ _ ...”

She nodded, but before she could move to stand again, he grabbed her wrist in a firm grip, “...Why  _ me _ ?   _ My  _ choice?  I ain’t nobody to you.”

Confusion clouded her brow as she frowned, “...I don’t know where you got that idea, Mister Morgan, but it wasn’t from me.  Or did you not read my letters as well as not respond?” She sighed, and in the dim light from the fire, Arthur could see the exhaustion in the shadows around her face, “Nevermind.  I understood as I understand now that you would not easily forgive my departure any more than Mister van der Linde did.”

“ _ I understood _ when you was leavin’ that it was because you  _ despised him _ .  Nothin’ about  _ me _ .” Arthur countered, “So why’re you sayin’ it was because of  _ me _ in the first place?”

“...I despised him because he could not see us for our value outside of his vanity, Arthur.  I despised him for the way he treated us. I despised him because I cared for you so much and he would not offer you  _ better  _ than to spend you up!” She bit her lip and turned her face to look out into the night, “... And still… if he had chosen as you had chosen… I would have protected him as I will protect you.”

“... Why?”

“... Because you love him.  Because it would make you happier.”

He scoffed, “You been  _ so dotin’ _ about my happiness…”

He sipped the contents of the mug, wincing at the bitterness and ignoring the steady look the lady was giving him for as long as he could stand it.  Eventually, he was forced to look back.

“... I did my best, Arthur.” She said softly, and in her pale eyes was an ocean of suffering he could hardly fathom.

What had happened to her this past year?

“...You shouldn’t’ve.” He replied quietly. “Not for me.”

She shook her head and started to stand, once more, but his hand at her wrist held her fast.  He continued, “I...I weren’t even faithful to you!”

_ Damn you, Mary... _

Something in Catherine softened, and she stopped struggling.  A hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth, “You mean Mrs. Linton?  I heard about that... But see, Arthur... I never asked you to be faithful to me.  All I wanted was for you to be faithful to  _ you _ ... and as far as I can tell, you've done that."

It was his turn to shake his head, releasing her wrist, letting her go, “I was gonna run off with her.  Finally get married like we was supposed to all them years ago… Was gonna go and forget you if I could! You ain’t got no business doing--”

“--It’s already done.  Don’t bother scolding me about it.  Spend your energy deciding what you want, Arthur.  What you  _ really want  _ with the time you have left.  After Emerald Ranch, we can figure out how to get it for you.”

He watched her stand and return to the fire, leaving him with his bitter mug.

* * *

The rolling green hills were beautiful in the summertime, and Arthur quietly admitted to himself that he was glad he was seeing them like this before he died.  He’d liked this country the first time they’d come through, and he liked it even better this second time, despite everything else. By mid-afternoon, they’d reached the small town and large camp by the train station.

A pair of armed men Arthur didn’t know approached Catherine and greeted her, reporting to  _ Mrs. Cornwall _ how the train was coming in the evening.  She thanked them, dismissed the two men, and then led the riders to where two familiar wagons were being disassembled and packed for shipping.  Miss Grimshaw’s voice could be heard haranguing her companions as the work went on.

“Why  _ you lot _ couldn’t work like this, I’ll never know--”

“--I pay them a good deal better per day than you are used to earning,” Mrs. Cornwall called over, “and most of them are many years younger, Miss Grimshaw.”

They were all here.  Everyone. Grimshaw, Mary-Beth, Karen, Pearson, Uncle, Swanson, Abigail, John…

Even old Strauss, though he kept quietly to himself and did not dare meet Arthur’s eye.

Everyone he’d hoped to see except Charles, though he’d still be with the Wapiti.  That was still a raw wound inside too.  Arthur wondered how he could still be alive with all these wounds bleeding fresh hour by hour…

But at the moment there were cheers and smiles, hugs and even some tears.  He could put down the hurts a little while for this.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Mrs. Cornwall smiling fondly from the outside of their mingling before pulling aside a tall, mustached man in nice clothes, carrying a shotgun, and asked him something, gesturing to the road.  The man nodded and stepped away, whistling for three more men in similar clothing.  A spectacled, fastidious man nervously approached and touched her elbow, showing her a leather bound ledger and speaking insistently about something on it before gesturing to their group.

“...I wasn’t sure she was tellin’ the truth,” John said from behind Arthur’s shoulder.  Turning, the big outlaw gave a wry smile.

“Me neither.”

“Seems too good to be true, don’ it?  Just… walkin’ away.”

Arthur nodded, “Yeah.  Let’s jus’ see…”

The two of them watched Mrs. Cornwall a few moments more, and John jerked his chin toward her, “... She’s lookin’ fine, all things considered…?”  Then he grinned wolfishly.

“Shut-up.” Rolling his eyes, Arthur took the moment to look over the younger outlaw, “... What about you?  See that shoulder got wrapped up nice…”

“Hurts a bit, but doctors got it cleaned up,” John shrugged, then his voice and faced hardened, “...He left me to die, Arthur.”

Another wound tore open inside him, and Arthur nodded slowly to himself.

“I don’ feel bad leavin’ him to swing.  Not after that.  An’ everything else.” Continued John fiercely. “ _ Especially _ since he ain’t with you… meanin’ he was giving  _ Abigail _ up, too!”

“I ain’t sayin’ y’should, John.  I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”


	3. Catherine's Set

A late lunch was organized, and the outlaws were quietly awed by the efficiency of this work camp in providing enough quality food for everyone.  Pearson mentioned wryly how it was amazing what full coffers and an open supply chain could do. Eating continuing to be a chore, Arthur spent more of his attention watching the goings on.  He determined that the dark-clothed, armed men milling about were private security hired by Cornwall, and that they kept the locals-- including the sheriff and his deputies-- from wandering into the camp.  Their smaller camp was surrounded by the larger work camp, which seemed to be established almost exclusively for this train arriving this evening. At the station, a number of passenger lines had been cancelled and rescheduled-- with ticket holders being reimbursed full price for their trouble.  Whatever this train was, it was a big deal, it seemed.

Immediately after lunch, the outlaws were ushered to a large canvas tent littered with tables and stools, and Mrs. Cornwall invited them to make themselves comfortable, as they were going to have an important conversation as soon as she secured the area so as to not be overheard.  Once settled, and the lady returned, closing the tent flap behind her she stepped toward the middle of the tent so she could be heard and seen by them all. Watching her, and seeing everyone together with the glimmer of hope on their faces, Arthur was reminded of a year ago-- the good times-- and tried hard not to focus on the voids left by those who were gone now…

“First, I want to thank you for your patience, and your trust,” Catherine began, “I know it… has been a difficult year.  When I left, I… I thought things could be arranged quickly. That we would be here nine months ago, or six at the longest.  I am truly sorry it has taken so much time for me to arrange things so we could meet like this. All of you have worked very hard for this moment, and I am so grateful.”

Gesturing in the direction of the station, she continued, “I’m sure you’ve heard talk about the train coming this evening.  That train is heading west, to California, and I will be on it. As part of my work this past year, I’ve secured a very large property, and my private estate is on a portion of it.  I’ve already made arrangements with the state to prepare to divide the remaining, undeveloped. acreages into separate plots for the potential of new owners. I have also prepared lines of withdrawable credit up to six thousand dollars for each person here, and my personal lawyers are, as we speak, in litigation with the states in which some of you have accumulated bounties under your own names.”  Reading the looks of shock on their faces, she shrugged helplessly and said, “...This is the United States of America, and when one finds themselves in the possession of wealth and power to rival the Vatican, one goes out of their way to help their friends. Especially since that was my goal from the beginning. In this country… perhaps in this entire world… most freedoms can be  _ bought _ , for good or for ill.”

“... So that’s it?  We can just… go?” Abigail asked, breathless, “To California?  To live on your land… with your money?”

Catherine shrugged again, “If that’s what you want.  I can offer you two opportunities: take the six thousand dollars credit and go wherever you will.  Captain your destiny. If you are wise, or are open to good advice, you can live very comfortably from that sum for the rest of your lives.  Or, I can employ you in one of the various positions in the many industries my late husband and father have left open with their passing. I promise you will not be employed below your potential, you will be paid a more than comfortable wage with benefits as desired, and you will be engaged in work that will shape the face of this country and the entire world.  Either option affords you a seat on my train if you wish it, as my house will always be open to you. If you want to establish yourselves near my estate, I will grant you the land. If you would rather live elsewhere, I will lend whatever assistance I fairly can. I just need you to decide what it is that you want. I will not, however, fund an indolent lifestyle for the rest of your days…”

All eyes turned to Uncle who demanded, “What?”

Mrs. Cornwall smiled, “If you never want to work again, Uncle, I’ll give you six thousand dollars and point you in the direction of a place where you can comfortably live off of it.  I will  _ not _ , however, let you live idly under my roof and hassle my employees.”

John spoke up in the midst of the laughter, “So we have until tonight to decide--”

“--The train isn’t leaving tonight.  It doesn’t leave until I tell it to, but the longer we stay here, the more attention we are going to draw from the authorities.  You do not have to make a final decision _now_ , but if you want to live back East, towards New York or some place like that, it’s a much shorter train ride from here than from California.  Please think about this seriously and let me know what you decide.” 

Then, she said, “...I have important business to attend to this evening.  I will be leaving by stagecoach in an hour. I would ask that you don’t leave the camp, and especially not to enter the town.  If there is anything you need, please let Barnabas know. He’s the man with the mustache and the shotgun you’ve seen me talking to.  You can trust him.”

The group of them all started talking at once as Catherine made her way out of the tent again.  Arthur followed her.

“Where are you going?”

“I have business to close.”

“Where?” His voice was hard.

Her expression was cool when she regarded him, “Annesburg.”

“We just  _ came _ from that way.”

“Yes.”

Watching her, trying to read her expression, Arthur suddenly said, “I’m coming with you.”

“No.  I won’t involve you in this.  Stay here. Think about what I said: some of the people you love are going to want to leave with the money and you may never see them again.”

That gave him pause, and his weight shifted back to his heels, “...What about you?  When will you be back?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.  Evening at the latest.  I don’t intend to stay long.”

“Quick business then.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh, “God, I hope so.”

* * *

Mary-Beth, Tilly, Pearson, and Reverend Swanson all chose the money.  They wanted the chance to start fresh, despite the affection they had for their patchwork family, and their benefactress.  The girls talked excitedly about going to New York or Boston. Mary-Beth wanted to write books.  Tilly wanted to marry a rich man and settle down.  Pearson considered buying a boat, or opening a store.  Or opening a boat store.  He agreed that maybe he ought to get some good advice, like Mrs. Cornwall had offered, before heading off.

Karen seemed to also consider choosing the money, and Arthur desperately wished she wouldn’t, as he could only imagine how she might kill herself with it.  Susan Grimshaw said she was at least going to  _ see _ California, and strongly advised Karen do the same.  They spent the rest of the evening arguing about it.

John and Abigail, like Susan, decided to take a _look_ at this land Catherine was offering first.  Any life they planned on making for themselves wouldn’t be out east.  Jack was excited to see the almost-mythic land of California at last.

Strauss and Javier planned to take jobs, though Javier wanted to stay near Mrs. Cornwall if he could, and Strauss planned to stay somewhere in this area.

Uncle had no idea what he wanted to do.  He was still thinking about what Dutch had said about Tahiti and sun-drenched beaches with beautiful dancing girls, but wasn’t sure he wanted to go check it out all alone.

Sadie assumed Catherine’s offer didn’t include her.  They were strangers, more or less.  Sadie had joined the gang weeks after Catherine had left it.

Arthur was a dead man walking, as far as he was concerned.  His days were numbered in a very real way, and so neither option made any damn sense to him.  What was he gonna do with six thousand dollars?  How the hell was he gonna learn, much less  _ work _ a new,  _ proper _ job?

Tilly and Mary-Beth sat down with him that night after Barnabas had sent two men to bring over a couple crates of whiskey for the camp.

“Still making up your mind, Arthur?” Tilly prompted, settling next to him.

“Don’ see much as needs decidin’, Miss Tilly.  Neither option will suit…”

Mary-Beth settled on the other side, and Arthur knew he was being penned in on purpose, but everybody was in such a good mood as they hadn’t been in such a long time, that he allowed it for the moment, “So you’ll go to California.  With Miss Catherine.”

“Now what makes you think a thing like that?” He laughed quietly into his bottle.

The two ladies looked at each other, then Mary-Beth said, “...Because you’re still in love with her, Arthur.”

Laughing led to coughing, but when he could manage to speak, he replied, “...I don’ see how that makes any difference…”

“Oh Arthur, really…” Tilly sighed in exasperation, “She loves you  _ too _ .  Always bringin’ you up in her letters…  You should be together.  While you got the chance.”

“I’m sure that’s jus’ what she wants,” Arthur retorted bitterly, climbing to his feet, “to bring a  _ dying man _ to her fancy estate.”

He started walking away, but not soon enough to keep from hearing Mary-Beth ask, “What if it is?  Will you go?”

* * *

Three days later, and the goodbyes had been said to those headed back east.  Catherine had bought them luggage, sent them with a list of contacts in New York should they need any help settling in, written instructions on how to withdraw their money from the lines of credit, and the post address for her estate.  They were sent to Annesburg by coach with some of her private security, just in case any outlaws decided to prey on them on the way, to board the train further north.  Herr Strauss was picked up by another stagecoach a day ago, heading south.  He shook Catherine’s hand, they conversed briefly in German (Arthur vaguely remembering they spoke different  _ types _ of German), and then he boarded the coach and left without another word to anyone.  Arthur supposed it was the best he could have hoped for, considering the last time they had parted ways.  He was inwardly glad, however, that the man had taken his advice and found a legitimate job.

Karen had been convinced by Catherine more than anyone else to stay behind and board the train to see California.  Sadie was also accompanying them on the train, but only until she figured out where she was going with the six thousand dollars Mrs. Cornwall insisted she take.  Everyone was treated to new clothes, a proper bath, and a sit in the barber’s chair if they wanted it-- even Jack-- in preparation for their journey.  Catherine and the man with the ledger planned for the train to start the journey to the west coast before the week was out, and the camp became an even more furious flurry of activity.

“Uncle Arthur!  Are you going with us to California?  Are you gonna be on the train?” Jack called excitedly as the big outlaw made his way over to the Marstons’ tent.  It was set a little ways from the rest, affording John and Abigail a bit of the privacy they craved for the prosperity of their relationship.

“We’ll see, Jack.  Can you do me a quick favor?  Go ask Uncle where he’s sittin’ on the train.  I don’ wanna sit next to him if I go.”

The boy giggled, grinning wide with mischief, and Arthur took the moment to relish his happiness which had been absent for too long.  He ran off, leaving Arthur alone with his parents.

“... What’s this about, Arthur?” Abigail’s accusation was tinted with a smile, even as her hands went to her hips.  John was watching him somewhat more warily, confusion clouding his brow.  Arthur figured that, like himself, he was still working through the realization that this out might be real, even though every instinct they’d been raised to have told them it was a trap.   _ Too good to be true. _

“...I just… wanted to ask,” The big outlaw began at length, “why when we was talkin’ about our own… plans… you didn’t ever bring this up.”

“What?  Catherine?” John’s brow furrowed, then he shared a look with his wife before saying, “...I dunno.  I didn’t hear much about it, and what I did hear… I wasn’t so sure I trusted.  I wasn’t sure I trusted it right up until that Barnabas and some of his boys dropped me here and I saw Abigail and some of the others.”

Abigail glanced aside and then wrung her hands in her apron, “... She wrote to me more than John, anyway.  She said she was working on something, but that it might take awhile.  I think she heard from someone that Dutch was looking at John and I strange… because the letters stopped sayin’ as much about it.  Not that they _ever_ said much anyway.  I think… I think she told most of the important things to them who knew how to read other languages.”

“... Because Dutch wouldn’t be able to read their letters…” Arthur said quietly, the realization coming to him slow.

John laughed, “Maybe I shoulda learned more than a couple words in German…”

“It wouldn’t have hurt.” Abigail replied archly.

Shaking his head, Arthur explained, “Nah.  Dutch was lookin’ at you hard for awhile.  Me too.  Ain’t no good woulda come from us knowin’ anything important, I reckon…”

“Honestly, I thought you were in on it until recently.  Seein’ as… well you know...”

“Nah,” Arthur sighed, hands falling to his gunbelt, “... I never wrote her back.”

The Marstons shared another wordless look, and Arthur excused himself, heading over toward where he heard Miss Grimshaw talking to Mrs. Cornwall.  Towards the central fire, he saw Jack fidgeting impatiently as Uncle dithered about his options. Arthur waved at him, letting him know he could leave it if he wanted.

“I’ve always liked you,” Susan was saying, “you were clever, but polite.  Respectful. You treated us fair. You listened. You always tried to be helpful.  I… for a long while I had hoped you would… tame… Mister van der Linde and make him a wife…”

“Oh Susan…” Catherine sighed.

“I know.  I know! Trust me, I know.  How he… could be.  And I know what he became.  I know too… about you and Mister Morgan.  Between you and me, I always thought you were… a little bit out of his reach… A little mismatched.  But… you cared for each other. So… I just let it be.  Oh! I’m babbling on… My  _ point _ , Mis-- Mrs… C-Corn--”

“‘Catherine’,” Supplied the young lady, taking the older woman’s hands, “Call me Catherine.”

“Catherine.  My  _ point _ is that I’ve always liked you…” Susan withdrew her hands, and wrung them together, “...And I trusted you this far.  But… I would feel… Well I… I need to know about Dutch.”

Arthur chose to hang back, leaning against a sturdy pole for one of the larger work tents and set about checking the edge of his knife as he listened.  He’d be obvious to either of the ladies if they bothered to look his way, but for the moment it seemed they were engrossed in their conversation and not their surroundings.

“What can I tell you?” Mrs. Cornwall prompted gently.

“...Why… not him too?  All this money and influence…?  Surely you could have…? Or… could you not forgive him?  I just can’t help but think… he might have… improved…”

The pale-eyed lady took several moments to collect her thoughts before answering, “...That is… a very complicated subject.  Whereas I must confess that… a small portion of my personal reasons do stem from… anger… at the way he treated me, and others, I know how much he was loved by those around him.  I wouldn’t have hurt you for my petty vengeance, Susan.”

“... So why?”

“There are a number of reasons:  Chiefly, Dutch would never have accepted my help, not without plans to double-cross and probably murder me.  It would have been too much at odds with his pride to do otherwise.  Secondly, the situation you were in was by _his design_ , and I am _very_ certain it was created because of his goals.  Susan, I do not believe for a moment that Dutch van der Linde ever intended of retiring from the outlaw business  _ or _ letting any of you go to do so.  Do you?  _Honestly_?  His vanity was too great.  He saw no futures except one more chance to prove his cleverness, and spite those who would tell him he  _ should not do as he pleased _ .  There would _never_ have been enough money to convince him it was best to stop and put the life behind him.  To what benefit would there be to clear his name and give him six thousand dollars for him to use, only for him to convince the rest of you all to die for his vanity?”

“... Those deaths weren’t his fault!”

“Maybe.  Maybe not.  But they  _ were  _ his responsibility to learn from.  Did he? Did anything ever change?”

“... No.  I suppose they didn’t…”

“We both know my thoughts are turned against him, so perhaps I am not the best judge of his intentions… but I am also basing my conclusions on the letters you and the others sent me.  You were growing afraid of him-- even  _ you _ , Susan.  So in my planning… I sought to protect you from him.

“Thirdly, I do have a disturbingly vast fortune, and more influence than pleases most people, but I still cannot dictate the business of the US government.  Dutch is more than just a wanted man, he is considered an enemy of civilization and ‘progress’. Though I find it… egregiously distasteful… this country is moving in a certain direction.  Dutch could not stop it. All he could do was hurt hundreds of innocent people in his misguided belief that he was striking a blow against some great enemy.  So the government had to provide an answer.  You know their answer, Susan.  They wanted him very badly-- him and all those like him.  The Colm O’Driscolls and Lindsey Woffords.  To stop the Pinkertons from hunting you, I had to turn to a higher authority.  The US Marshals agreed to take Agents Milton and Ross, but they knew of my… limited… attachment to Dutch, and they wanted my help to get him.  It did not help matters that my… late husband and father… did not always treat the government in a way that was fair and legal in their dealings.  So I agreed to assist them, understanding that if in the end my assistance and direction did not offer results… there would be consequences.”

Susan frowned deeply, “What do you mean?”

“...Without his knowledge, I presented Dutch a choice: he could decide to prove his loyalty and compassion for those who’ve supported him, or he could prove his demented self-interest.  He chose the latter, which is… why he is not here.  If he had chosen the former, however, I had in place arrangements for him to receive similar-- though it would be impossible to offer him the  _ same _ \-- options available to all of you.  I would have protected him as best as I was able.  Because you loved him, and… it would have been enough for me, if he truly loved all of you too.  However, in doing so… Well.  The US Marshals would need  _ someone _ to point at for their failure.  It would have taken some doing, but… I would eventually have my day on the gallows.”

“They would have hanged you?!”

“They would have to hang  _ someone _ after all the effort and money turned them up empty-handed.  I wouldn’t give up any of you, and so it would be me,” Catherine shrugged with a wry smile, “Though, rest assured, I would have made them _work_ for it.”

They were quiet a few moments, and Arthur was glad for it.  It gave him time to choke down this revelation and try to convince his heart to keep beating steady instead of give out under the weight of this knowledge.  Catherine would have died in Dutch’s place if Arthur had succeeded in convincing the man to turn back for Abigail?

“... So is he dead, then?” Miss Grimshaw asked, taking a deep breath and steeling herself, “Is Dutch dead?”

“... They hanged him in Annesburg three days ago.  It was a clean death.  Instant.”

Processing this, the older woman said, “What about Micah?”

“He went second.”

“... Did he suffer?” Susan demanded in a way that made it clear she hoped he had.

“Only the disappointment that his Pinkertons were truly not coming to rescue him.”


	4. California

Catherine found him hours later, working through everything he now knew, and everything he felt.  He surprised himself, how little anger there was with the conclusion of things. The news of Dutch’s execution was bitter, but not as painful as the reflection on his betrayal of everything he’d held dear and taught them in exchange for everything he’d told them to deplore.  In the end, the man who’d been hanged, Arthur supposed, was not the man he’d grown to love. If that man had ever existed in the first place...

“You haven’t told me your decision,” The lady said softly, taking a seat by the fire next to Arthur who closed his journal as she did so.

“Mrs. Cornwall… seein’ as you’ve been gettin’ letters from everyone, you surely know already that I’ve got TB.” He replied quietly, “So I ain’t gonna be any good for any sort of job you might offer me for long, and I ain’t got much use for your six thousand dollars.”

“Mister Morgan,” She answered in a similar tone, “you aren’t dead yet, and while that remains true, I have invested interest in how you want to spend your remaining days.  All I’ve offered are tools to go about securing that future. If they’re insufficient, I am open to suggestions.”

He didn’t have any, really.  What he’d wanted, starting out, was more or less already around him.  It seemed she’d been genuine, and the people he cared for, who were still alive, were safe, and would remain safe for some years yet, if they were wise.  He hadn’t planned any further than this. He supposed he hadn’t expected to live this long.

When his silence lingered too long, Catherine spoke again, “May I make a suggestion..?”

“... May as well,” He sighed.

“Come with me.”

“To California?  Sure--”

“To my house.  Stay with me.”

Feeling his back teeth grind, Arthur shook his head, “...Last thing I want is to spend my lingering days tucked up in a fancy bed all hours--”

“--Then don’t.  The estate has a stables and three orchards, a vineyard and wine press, two workshops, miles of hunting and trails, two or three streams.  Indoors, I’ve managed to collect the _largest_ private library west of the Lanahachee River.  There’s also a gaming room where the men like to play cards three nights a week.  Spend your time how you want. I just… I want you there.”

Meeting her eyes, he saw that she meant it, and not from a place of pity. “...It sounds real fine...”

“It should,” She said softly, “I had you in mind when I had it built.”

* * *

 

He slept most of the train journey, truth be told, in the private sleeper car she’d had made for them, just behind their private passenger car-- where they were all seated in comfort.  He was informed afterwards by John, Uncle, and Miss Grimshaw, that the journey had been a peaceful one. Jack was excited about his chance to go up to the engine car with the engineer, and to pull the whistle.  He spent the next week telling his parents he was going to be a train engineer _and_ a gunslinger, and nobody would rob his trains _ever_.

Arthur would only really remember the morning they finished their journey over and through the mountains and into California proper, seeing the pale purplish light of dawn reflecting off the snow-capped peaks and shifting the thin mists over the rolling hill country with its carpets of wildflowers.  Catherine had stopped beside him to look out the window as well, and as the light slowly turned from purple to gold, he felt her fingers brush shyly against his before he took her hand and held it. Only for a few moments, but the warmth of her skin and weight of the intimacy in the touch lingered long after she stepped away again.

 

There were a number of passengers not related to their party, and they were continuing on to San Francisco  Their own stop came not long after sunrise, and another large camp was formed and the train partially unloaded.  After the train moved on, they spent the rest of the day putting wagons back together and walking out the horses and getting everyone used to their feet again.  The horses seemed to have journeyed well, despite most of them not having been packed for shipping before. The following morning, the smaller group of them-- the remnants of the Van der Linde gang, Mrs. Cornwall, Barnabas, and some of his men-- rode out, leaving the nervous ledger man, whose name Arthur never caught, and the workers and their big tents to deal with themselves.

It was beautiful country, rolling plains of green and golden grasses in the valley and wooded foothills and towering cliffs over those.  A waterfall could be heard in the distance, even over all the horses and the wagons.

They kept a steady pace, stopping for lunch, where Catherine pointed out the town nearest her home, Flintpoint Hollow.  Arthur was paying more attention to the woman, herself. There seemed to be a strange air coming over her, at once she seemed more nervous and more exhausted.  He wondered if she were not used to traveling days in her new life of wealth. That didn’t seem right, though, because only a year ago, when she’d come from a similar life, she’d never seemed worn by the rigors of the outdoors.

It broke like a fever in her that evening when they arrived at the estate.  Whatever she had been anticipating, she anticipated no more, for it was upon her.  Before them was a beautiful mansion in the Spanish style in a clearing surrounded by ancient trees.  Three grooms met them to take the horses to the paddocks, and after a brief debate on the matter-- which the grooms surprisingly _won_ \-- they proceeded to the gate of the house where they were greeted by the biggest black man any of them had ever seen.  He dwarfed Arthur by at least a foot, and even at his strongest and healthiest, this man had to outweigh him by fifty or more pounds.  His clothes were clean and well-tailored, and he held himself with rigid, almost military dignity.

“Welcome home.” He opened the gate and bowed his head to Catherine, his voice deep and bass, the words rolling with an unfamiliar accent.

“Thank you, Mister Hawthorne.”

Looking them all over, Mister Hawthorne seemed to take their measure in an instant and reported to the lady, “Supper will be ready within the hour and the spare bedrooms are prepared with linens and hot water for our guests.  Will Mister Misser and his men be joining us at table?”

Barnabas spoke up, “No, that’s--”

“--Please join us for supper, Barnabas, at least.  There’s room at the table.” Catherine smiled graciously, then indicated the huge man, “My friends, this is Mister Dmitri Hawthorne.  He runs the manor. My dear Mister Hawthorne, these are our long-awaited guests: Miss Susan Grimshaw, Miss Karen Jones, Mister Javier Escuella, Mister John Marston, Missus Abigail Marston, Mister Jack Marston, Mister Arthur Morgan, Missus Sadie Adler, and the good-natured fellow we all agree to call ‘Uncle’.”

“A distinct pleasure to finally meet in person.” The goliath responded, his tone quiet and cool, and yet there was no hint of sarcasm, either.  With one massive hand, he indicated a mousey woman in a plain dress and apron, “Miss Withiers, please take Miss Grimshaw, Miss Jones, Missus Adler, and the family Marston to their rooms so they can refresh themselves before supper, after their long journey.  Mister Escuella, Mister Morgan, Mister Uncle, I will show you your rooms, if you would follow me. Mistress--”

“--Catherine, Dmitri.  _Really._ ”

“--Mistress _Catherine_ ,” Mister Hawthorne continued, nonplussed, “I request you retire to your bedchambers and not your office before supper.  Mister Misser and company, I believe you know your way to the front lounge?”

“We’ll be fine, Hawthorne, thanks.” The moustached man assured him, gesturing for his men to follow him.

 

Inside, the mansion’s warm cream walls glowed with lamplight.  The rooms were large and airy, and though the furnishings were of good quality, they were not oppressive in their presentation, and very little was present without a clear function.  Miss Withiers led the ladies and Marstons up the central stairs while Mister Hawthorne turned to the right, pointed out the dining room-- which was already lain with about twenty place settings on a long table-- and the adjacent parlor where Barnabas and his men situated themselves to smoke with the big windows open.  They passed a few more closed doors before the big man opened the door at the corner.

“Mister Morgan, this room has been prepared for you.  If you need anything at all, there is a bell pull just inside the door, or you can ask anyone in the house.”

“... So I jus’ stay here…?” Arthur gave the goliath and the men still behind him a dubious look.

“You are welcome to go anywhere you like, but please keep in mind supper will be served shortly.”

With that they left him.

The bedroom was decently sized with large windows and access to the outdoors.  A sinfully comfortable looking bed awaited him, covers already turned down, but Arthur ignored it, as he suspected he’d sleep right through supper if he laid down.

Not that he was hungry at all, really.  He just wanted to sit with everyone what few chances were still afforded him.

He wanted to see the Marstons flabbergasted at real silver flatware they could eat with instead of steal and fence.  He wanted to see Karen speechless to be waited on. Susan gobsmacked with the number of courses in the meal. Javier praising the wine in Spanish.  He wanted Sadie to struggle to find something to be discontent with. He even wanted Uncle to try and make up a story about how he’d once had a _finer_ meal somewhere.  He wanted to see Catherine’s pale eyes smiling at them all from the head of the table over candlelight...

Decidedly avoiding the standing mirror in the corner, Arthur washed up in the basin, discovering the water was indeed heated as Hawthorne had said, and then stepped out the side door into the evening to watch and listen, taking in…his new home…?

Some time later, the big black man came to collect him for the dining room, suggesting he leave his gear in the room, but not insisting when Arthur made no move to take anything off.

 

The meal was everything Arthur had wanted and more.  It did not take long at all for everyone to relax warmly into each other's company with good food.  The outlaws kept a modicum of decorum in the fancy environs of their hostess, but _table manners_ were largely overlooked and indeed ignored by everyone _except_ the lady in question, who had been reared with them in her education.  At the very least there was no spitting or smoking at the table.

Everything was going very well until that terrible, familiar feeling clenched through Arthur’s chest like a vise and he began coughing hard and rough.  Having mind enough to step away from the table, the food, and the others, he made it only two paces before the inability to inhale clean again stole the strength from his limbs.  Inky dregs of darkness began to swallow the outside edges of his vision. He was drowning on phlegm and blood again…

Some part of his awareness caught snatches of activity: how the voices from the table asked after him, John and Catherine getting to their feet…

Someone’s hand on his elbow just before his knees buckled.

Trying to gasp protests as somebody-- or more than one person-- lifted him to be carried.

 

He woke what must have been hours later, moonlight streaming in through the windows from the space between drawn curtains, and someone mopping the horrible night sweats from his face, neck, and the exposed part of his chest with a cool cloth that smelled like mint and lemon.  He knew it was Catherine from the way the fingers of her other hand smoothed through his hair at his temple.

Despite every desire to say something to her--maybe to ask her wryly if she was sure _this_ was what she wanted in her fancy house, exhaustion and fever dragged him down again.  It was later that John told him they’d spent three days convinced they were just waiting to bury him.


End file.
